Free The Hostaged Island by Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers Page A

aching throat; Gadgets straightened his Outlaws jacket, checked his Uzi for damage. That all was close. It left them both really pissed off.
    * * *
    Following Forest Service roads and firebreaks, the three warriors on their Outlaw Harley 1200s weaved their way through the interior of the island. From time to time they could see the antennas of Radio Station KCAT on Mount Black Jack, where KCAT shared the peak with the Harbor Master's radar installation. A final bumpy motorcycle climb up a canyon's dry stream bed took them halfway up Mount Black Jack, to within a thousand feet of the station. They could go no farther on the bikes without risking observation.
    Lyons sprinted to a ridge crest and watched the station through the scope of the Mannlicher. While the ex-cop was gone, Gadgets conferred with Blancanales:
    "You know why that mess happened at the airport?"
    Blancanales nodded.
    Gadgets continued. "We've got to come to an agreement with Lyons about improvising. He's taking a lot of long, long chances. He's going to run out of luck. You stand with me?"
    "If he goes down, we lose a very good man."
    Lyons came toward them, returning from the ridge. "One man on the roof with binoculars. He's smoking dope and throwing beer cans. Ready to go?"
    "No," Gadgets told him. "I declare a 'Severe Self-Criticism Session.' You came within a second of dying back there at the airport. If super-creep had come out with a weapon in his hands, you'd be dead. From now on, we plan it, then we do it. No more improvising."
    Thinking only a moment, Lyons nodded. "At the time it seemed the right thing to do, faking him out on the hand-radio. It wasn't. I'm sorry. I was grandstanding. I am self-criticized. Now we go?"
    Able Team proceeded to the peak of Mount Black Jack along narrow slashes of erosion, the overfolding brush obscuring the sky and the possible observation of the sentry above them.
    Creeping to the edge of the fire-clearing around the station, they saw the cinder block buildings with open balconies that housed the offices and transmitter of KCAT, and a few hundred yards farther along a dirt road there was a steel tower supporting the constantly rotating scanners of the Harbor Master's radar. Outside the door of the radio offices, a hundred-yards away, were two Honda Cross Country Cruisers.
    "I don't want to try a hundred-yard shot with the Beretta," Blancanales said. "Next time the sentry wanders over to the other side, I'll sprint for the door. You guys cover me, then the three of us bust in. Agreed? Enough of a plan?"
    The others nodded, smiling. Blancanales waited, then ran. At the door, he pressed against the wall. The door hung ajar. It had been shot open. Above him, he heard the crunch of motorcycle boots.
    A beer can fell, rolled on the concrete of the balcony, foam and beer gushing from the top. "Goddamn it," the biker muttered. Then he called out as he leaned over the edge. "Vito. Throw up another beer..."
    "Coming up." Blancanales called, a single slug suddenly punching into the biker's nose. He collapsed, his hand and head twitching as they hung over the edge of the parapet. Lyons and Gadgets joined Blancanales.
    Blancanales pointed to himself, then pointed inside. Lyons shielded himself with the Ingram as they stepped into the office.
    The room was empty. Blancanales continued to the next door, Lyons a step behind him.
    In front of a television, a very pale biker nodded off. He wore only undershirt and jeans. In one hand he was holding a length of surgical tubing. A needle and syringe hung from his other arm. He didn't wake from his heroin stupor as Blancanales slipped up to him, put the Beretta to his temple. The junkie would never wake.
    They returned to the door. "It's all over."
    "Now we go put this..." Gadgets held up a small charge of C-4 explosive with a radio detonator, "...on the radar."
    "I'll do the clean-up here," Lyons offered. "I'll be watching the road down the hill until you get back."
    Gadgets and Blancanales